


Madsen’s Malmö Mayhem

by LooNEY_DAC



Series: LooNEY_DAC's SSSS AUs [9]
Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:21:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8665618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooNEY_DAC/pseuds/LooNEY_DAC
Summary: Secret Agent Mikkel versus the Rash.





	1. The Great Dane Grates

_My name is Mikkel Madsen. I used to be a spy, until I decided to resign..._

Mikkel looked on askance as the red-haired Norwegian fury took out another contingent of guards. Whoever was paying Sigrun to break him out of this “upscale gated community” was getting their money’s worth. Of course, that was why Sigrun was the go-to girl when it came to ops like this.

Eventually, however, there was no one left for Sigrun to fight, so she could turn her full attention to Mikkel. He put up his hands in a placatory gesture, but Sigrun proved implacable as ever, ignoring his attempts to assure her that he would not be fool enough to resist in favor of stun-gunning him into oblivion.

*

For the second time in under a week, Mikkel came to with a bad taste in his mouth. This time, however, his hands and feet were bound, his eyes covered and his mouth gagged. “Sorry, big fellow,” Sigrun’s cheerful voice told him from somewhere to his left, “but I couldn’t chance you changing your mind about coming along peacefully at the last minute. I’ll have you out of those soon enough.”

Mikkel wasn’t so sure he wanted the blindfold off any time soon, as it was obvious that wherever they were headed, they were getting there in a car, and _that_ meant that Sigrun was almost certainly driving; he’d been in a car while Sigrun was driving before, quickly discovering that keeping your eyes closed was the only certain way to keep your blood pressure stable.

Eventually, the vehicle pulled to a stop. After what seemed a very long wait indeed, Mikkel’s gag and blindfold were removed, in that order, and Sigrun chirped, “Mess time!” as Mikkel blinked and worked the kinks out of his jaw.

In front of him was a tray with a steaming bowl of porridge-y stuff on it. A spoon clattered next to the bowl. “As you can see, I managed to get your favorite,” Sigrun told him smugly.

“Thank you,” Mikkel replied even more dryly than was his wont.

“Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Sigrun said. “The easy way is where I free your left hand and you feed yourself. The _hard_ way is where I have to stun you again and then feed you myself. So, which’ll it be?”

*

Sigrun turned on the radio for him once they were back on the road. The program was in Swedish, to his surprise, but the hosts were amusing and the music pleasing. Had he not been restrained, Mikkel would have enjoyed himself quite a bit.

“Wait, what?” Sigrun sputtered. As though they’d heard her confused outburst, the announcers repeated the breaking news: in an effort to hinder the spread of the so-called “Rash Disease”, Denmark was closing its borders as of 1600 local time, making it the first non-island nation to take such a step.

“Great,” Sigrun groaned. “We’ll never make the Oresund bridge before it closes! Hmmmmmm...” After a considerable bit of thought, Sigrun snapped her fingers. “OK, I’ve got it! We’ll just hunker down in Malmö until this thing blows over. I’ve got a buddy there doing a job who can put us up in a pinch.”

*

Sigrun’s “buddy” was a young, golden-haired pretty boy named Emil, which surprised Mikkel, until he snuck a look at Emil’s quite comprehensive explosives lab. Trust Sigrun to take to a budding firebug. Emil was obviously somewhat in awe of her, which was normal enough.

The confab was broken up by the far door opening and a cheery female voice calling out, “We’re back, Emil!” Seconds later, two ash-blonde Finns and a tall, gangly redhead with a truly remarkable braid walked in.

Emil made the introductions somewhat awkwardly. The two Finns were Lalli, cat burglar and computer wizard, and his cousin Tuuri, grifter and mechanic extraordinaire. The redhead, who proved to be an Icelander, was their intern, Reynir, who was under the impression that they were a legitimate outfit doing security testing work, instead of a ring of thieves and swindlers. Reynir was so like a human puppy, though, that none of them wanted to disillusion him.

Fortunately, Sigrun was glib-tongued enough to claim to be a simple bounty hunter bringing Mikkel back to face justice in Denmark, so the ruddy naif’s illusions were kept intact for the present.

Mikkel had already decided to metaphorically sit back and await further developments, and this pit stop only reinforced that notion. Things looked to become quite interesting very shortly...


	2. It Got Worse

Year 0, Day 5

“It looks like a cat.”

Lalli’s dry observation seemed to echo in the stunned silence that followed the arrival of the strange-looking vehicle at their base of operations, a carefully unobtrusive warehouse buried amongst many others just like it in the much-reduced-but-still-truly-massive harbor complex. Ever since the multi-tracked vehicle had _slllllllooooooowwwllllyyy_ pulled up to their door, Tuuri had been in an uncharacteristically shocked silence.

Eventually, a door on the side slid open, revealing a figure of medium size topped by a head bearing the same nose, eyes and hair as the other Hotakainens, so Mikkel felt it safe to assume this was another of their clan.

The sight jolted Tuuri out of her silence. “Onni!” she exclaimed in Finnish, “what are you doing here?”

Mikkel had a passing acquaintance with the Finn tongue, so he caught the gist of their conversation. From what they _didn’t_ say, Mikkel gathered that Onni was more or less a complete shut-in: agoraphobe, anthrophobe, germophobe, and several other -phobes.

From what they _did_ say, Mikkel gathered that Onni was also even better with computers than Lalli, so when he heard that Denmark was closing its borders, he’d plucked up his courage and joined his family, “borrowing” this semi-experimental vehicle from the training facility where it was being evaluated along the way.

“Blah blah blah positive air pressure blah blah advanced filtration and purification systems blah blah.” Tuuri was eating the tech talk up, while Sigrun and Emil looked increasingly bored. Lalli had already slipped into the vehicle to check out Onni’s hacking set-up, while Reynir had slipped back into the building to see whether he could whip up something nice for the new arrival.

“That’s all very nice,” Sigrun said, her tone contradicting her words, “but is there any, y’know, _weaponry_ aboard?”

“Maybe just a flamethrower?” Emil asked, obviously trying not to sound _too_ hopeful.

Onni looked nonplussed when Tuuri relayed the questions. His answer was obviously the Finnish for “no”.

“Well, _that_ thing’s just a waste of space, then.” Sigrun crossed her arms truculently, if not outright pugnaciously.

“It got Onni here, which is good enough for me!” Tuuri flared up in another uncharacteristic outburst.

Emil butted in, trying to play peacemaker, but the two girls were already metaphorically snarling and growling at each other in preparation for an air-clearing brawl, ill-timed though it might be, so both verbally slashed at him until he retreated.

“YOU NEED TO HEAR THIS!”

The world seemed to stop in confusion. _Lalli_ had _screamed? Lalli,_ the quietest of the quiet? Then, into the silence, a professional ‘news presenter’ voice started speaking in Finnish.

“...confirmed that _two_ of the original patients did die earlier today.”

As the news went on, Tuuri gave a rough translation, her voice thin with fear. No recoveries. No “in good condition”. No cure yet, or perhaps ever.

“What were you saying about the air filtration again?” Sigrun asked Onni quietly...


	3. Mischief, er, Mayhem Managed

Malmö lay under a fog of silence, though the sun shone brightly overhead. In this, the tenth summer since the Outbreak, Man had long since fled the old urban sprawls. Even with the Cure, fighting grosslings was no easy endeavor, and the more tightly packed the grosslings, the harder it got.

No, nothing stirred in the slowly crumbling agglomerations of glass and steel and concrete so seemingly bereft of life. Yet a twisted form of life remained, lurking and awaiting its opportunity to strike.

The sun was setting as the Cat-Tank crept into the university green. It would be a warm, dark night, the kind Men had learned to fear as “grossling nights”.

Once the last rays of the sun had vanished, rather than remaining as silent as possible, a set of hastily scavenged loudspeakers deployed, briefly squealing with high-pitched feedback before utterly shattering the usual nightly calm in the derelict city. Thundering, raucous music bellowed out in a tune first created and recorded in this very city, in a defiant challenge to the new rulers of the night.

For long minutes after the song ended, nothing seemed to stir on the green. Silence held sway for nearly an hour, until something shifted, like dry leaves rustling in a soft evening breeze.

The “cat ear” floodlights pulsed briefly, momentarily illuminating a crowd of hundreds or even thousands of grosslings of all shapes and sizes surrounding the Cat-Tank.

It was time.

Suddenly, thick barricades of twisted steel dropped into place, sealing off every exit from the green. The loudspeakers blared out again, but in a short and simple message rather than a song. “Oh, look. NOW YOU CAN’T LEAVE.”

Perhaps whatever was left of the humans in that vast assemblage of trolls and giants understood that message; perhaps the predators recognized an ambush not unlike the ones they tended to lay themselves. Whatever the reason, a shudder of unease rustled through the grosslings, but before any could begin a stampede away from the bait, it began.

Flames gouted in all directions from the crouching little vehicle, matched by fiery jets from the barricades as the edges of the crowd belatedly began to try to escape. This night belonged to Man, as would Malmö once more.

*

That particular trap only worked once, of course; but it had worked, and well enough that Cleansing Malmö, once beyond even the fantasies spewed by wild-eyed men, was virtually assured. In the months that followed, the grossling were pushed further and further back, until the day finally came when a cat could strut from one end of the city to the other without a hint of alarm.

Years only seem short when they’re fairly uneventful. It took many _long_ years to Cleanse the rest of Sweden, Nor-way and Finland, but finally, and with no little elation, the Nordic Armies were ready to strike south into Denmark.

By this time, Iceland had been forced to open its borders, but only after a renovated Norwegian gunboat squadron had taken a lone ship of the Icelandic Coast Guard--by absorbing all the fire she could dish out until her magazines were empty, and then firing a warning shot across her bow. At that point, the Icelandic captain decided they would talk.

Now Icelander, Dane, Norwegian, Swede and Finn alike were ready to retake Silent Zealand. The Danes, particularly, held it as almost a holy endeavor.

*

After the Battle of Kastrup was won by the combined armies after the headstrong Danes had almost managed to lose it, what an ancient Sage of War had called _“Methodismus”_ was put into play. Bit by bit, plot by plot, sometimes inch by inch was Copenhagen retaken.

Far off in Malmö, the six unlikely heroes who had made it all possible lay in a cenotaph of honor, and every year, the citizens held a Fire Festival in memory of the little band that had saved the city--and brought it a bit of mayhem.


End file.
